Examples of the Metre Called Skeltonical

The Genealogye of Heresye. Compyled by Ponce Pantolabus.Imprynted at London In Pater noster rowe. At the signe of ourladye pytye [some copies, our fadyr Pyte] By Johan Redman.by Robert Wyer: vide Typograph. Antiq. iii. 59, 182. ed.Dibdin (the size of them not mentioned). The author was JohnHuntingdon.

These editions I have not seen: the whole of the tract, however, seemsto be quoted in A mysterye of inyquyte contayned within the heretycallGenealogye of Ponce Pantolabus, is here both dysclosed & confuted ByJohan Bale An. M.D.XLII. 12mo, Geneva, 1545, from which I subjoin thefollowing passages:

“Blynde obstynacyeBegate heresye,By a myschaunce,Of dame ignoraunce.Heresye begateStryfe and debate.Debate and ambycyonBegate supersticyon.Supersticion playneBegate disdayne.Dysdayne of trowtheBegate slowthe.Slowthe & sluggyshnesseBegate wylfulnesse.Wylfulnesse, verelyeNygh cosyne to heresye,Begate myschefe,Father of Wyclefe,Which ded bringe inneHis grandfather synne.After this brotherCame forth an other;His name to discusse,Menne called him Husse;He and his cumpanyeBegan in Germanye.And after thatCame in a gnatOf the same kynde,Whose sowle is blynde;His name you shall here,Menne call him Luthere.He by his meaneHath bannyshed cleaneOut of that costeThe Holye Ghoste,And hath brought inneLyberte and synne.Next after him,Is his chefe lymOne Melanchtonus,Nequaquam bonus.Next after this whelpeCame in to helpeOne Oecolampadius,With his brother Zuinglius.And for this tymeHere endeth my ryme,The GenealogyeOf stynkynge heresye:Wherin I requyreAnd humblye desyreAll menne ywysThat shall rede this,Aboue all thingeTo praye for our kynge,And the quene alsoWhere so euer she go,And for the sauegardeOf our prince Edwarde,Whom I praye JesuLonge to contynewe!Amen.”

The bukler and defenceOf mother holy kyrke,And weapē to driue henceAl that against her wircke.

“Wyll none in all this landeStep forth, and take in handeThese felowes to withstande,In nombre lyke the sande,That with the Gospell melles,And wyll do nothynge ellesBut tratlynge tales tellesAgaynst our holy prelacieAnd holy churches dygnitie,Sayinge it is but papistrie,Yea, fayned and hipocrisy,Erronious and heresye,And taketh theyr aucthoritieOut of the holy Euangelie,All customes ceremoniallAnd rytes ecclesiasticall,Not grounded on Scripture,No longer to endure?And thus, ye maye be sure,The people they alureAnd drawe them from your lore,The whiche wyll greve you sore;Take hede, I saye, therfore,Your nede was neuer more.But sens ye be so slacke,It greueth me, alacke,To heare behynde your backeHowe they wyll carpe and cracke,And none of you that dareWith one of them compare.Yet some there be that areSo bolde to shewe theyr ware,And is no priest nor deacon,And yet wyll fyre his beconeAgaynst suche fellowes frayle,Make out with tothe and nayle,And hoyste vp meyne sayle,And manfully to fyght,In holy prelates ryght,With penne and ynke and paper,And lyke no triflynge iaperTo touche these felowes indedeWith all expedient spede,And not before it nede:And I indede am heThat wayteth for to seWho dare so hardy beTo encounter here with me;I stande here in defenceOf some that be far hence,And can both blysse and sence,And also vndertakeRyght holy thynges to make,Yea, God within a cake;And who so that forsakeHis breade shall be dowe bake;I openly professeThe holy blyssed masseOf strength to be no lesseThen it was at the fyrst:But I wolde se who durstSet that amonge the worst,For he shulde be accurstWith boke, bell, and candell,And so I wolde hym handellThat he shulde ryght well knoweHowe to escape, I trowe,So hardy on his heade,Depraue our holy breade,Or els to prate or patterAgaynst our holy watter.This is a playne matter,It nedeth not to flatter:They be suche holy thyngesAs hath ben vsed with kynges;And yet these lewde loselles,That bragge vpon theyr Gospelles,At ceremonies swelles,And at our christined belles,And at our longe gownes,And at your shauen crownes,And at your typittes fyne,The iauelles wyll repyne.They saye ye leade euyll lyuesWith other mennes wyues,And wyll none of your owne,And so your sede is sowneIn other mennes grounde,True wedlocke to confounde:Thus do they rayle and raue,Callynge euery priest knaue,That loueth messe to saye,And after ydle all daye:They wolde not haue you playeTo dryue the tyme awaye,But brabble on the Byble,Whiche is but impossibleTo be learned in all your lyfe;Yet therin be they ryfe,Whiche maketh all this stryfe,” &c.

From The Vpcheringe of the Messe: Inprinted at Lōdon by John Daye andWillyam Seres, 12mo, n. d.

“Who hath not knowen or herdHow we were made afeardThat, magre of our beard,Our messe shulde cleane awaye,That we did dayly saye,And vtterly decayeFor euer and for aye?So were we brought in doubteThat all that are deuoutWere like to go withouteThe messe that hath no peere,Which longe hath taried here,Yea, many an hundreth yere,And to be destituteOf that whiche constituteWas of the highe deputeOf Christe and his apostles;Althoughe none of the GospelsNo mention maketh or tells,We must beleue (what ells?)Of things done by councells,Wherein the high professours,Apostlique successours,Take holde to be possessours;And some were made confessours;Some of them were no startars,But were made holi marters:Yet plowmen, smythes, & cartars,With such as be their hartars,Will enterprise to taxeThes auncyent mens actesAnd holy fathers factes.Thoughe messe were made bi men,As popes nyne or ten,Or many more, what then?Or not of Scripture grounded,Is yt therfore confoundedTo be a supersticion?Nay, nay, they mysse the quission:Make better inquyssicion;Ye haue an euyll condicionTo make suche exposicion;Ye thinke nothing but ScriptureIs only clene and pure;Yes, yes, I you ensure,The messe shalbe hir better,As light as ye do set hir.The Scripture hath nothingWherby profyte to bryng,But a lytyll preaching,With tattling and teaching;And nothing can ye espieNor se with outwarde eye,But must your ears applieTo learnyng inwardlye;And who so it will folowe,In goods though he may walow,If Scripture once him swalowe,She wyll vndo him holowe;Wherfore no good mes singersWill come within hir fyngers,But are hir vnder styngers,For she wolde fayne vndoAll such as lyueth so.To the messe she is an enymye,And wolde distroye hir vtterlye,Wer not for sum that frendfullyIn time of nede will stand hir by.Yet is the messe and she as lykeAs a Christian to an heretike:The messe hath holy vestures,And many gay gestures,And decked with clothe of golde,And vessells many folde,Right galaunt to beholde,More then may well be tolde,With basen, ewer, and towell,And many a prety jwelle,With goodly candellstyckes,And many proper tryckys,With cruetts gilt and chalys,Wherat some men haue malice,With sensers, and with pax,And many other knackys,With patent, and with corporas,The fynest thing that euer was.Alasse, is it not pitieThat men be no more wittyeBut on the messe to iest,Of all suche thinge the best?For if she were supprest,A pyn for all the rest.A, good mestres Missa,Shal ye go from vs thissa?Wel, yet I muste ye kissa:Alacke, for payne I pyssa,To se the mone here issa,Because ye muste departe!It greueth many an herteThat ye should from them start:But what then? tushe, a farte!Sins other shifte is none,But she must neades be gone,Nowe let vs synge eche one,Boeth Jak and Gyll and Jone,Requiem eternam,Lest penam sempiternamFor vitam supernam,And vmbram infernamFor veram lucernam,She chaunce to enherite,According to hir merite.Pro cuius memoriaYe maye wel be soria;Full smale maye be your gloria,When ye shal heare thys storia;Then wil ye crie and roria,We shal se hir no moria:Et dicam vobis quareShe may no longer stare,Nor here with you regnare,But trudge ad vltra mare,And after habitareIn regno PlutonicoEt euo acronyco,Cum cetu BabilonicoEt cantu diabolico,With pollers and pillers,And al hir well willers,And ther to dwel euer:And thus wil I leaue hir.”

“Gyue place, ye poetes fine,Bow doune now & encline;For nowe yᵉ Muses nyne,So sacred and diuine,In Parnase holy hyllHaue wrought theyr worthy wyll.And by theyr goodly skyllVppon that myghty mountayneIn Hellycons fountayne, &c.O poete so impudent,Whyche neuer yet was studente,To thee the goddes prudenteMinerua is illudente!Thou wrytest thynges dyffuse,Incongrue and confuse,Obfuscate and obtuse;No man the lyke doth useAmong the Turckes or Jewes;Alwayes inuentyng newesThat are incomparable,They be so fyrme and stable:Lyke as a shyppe is able,Wythout ancre and cable,Roother, maste, or sayle,Pully, rope, or nayle,In wynde, weather, or hayle,To guyde both top and tayle,And not the course to fayle;So thys our poet maye,Wythout a stopp or staye,In cunnynge wend the way,As wel by darke as day,And neuer go astray,Yf yt be as they saye.O poet rare and recent,Dedecorate and indecent,Insolent and insensate,Contendyng and condensate,Obtused and obturate,Obumbylate, obdurate,Sparyng no priest or curate,Cyuylyan or rurate,That be alredy marryed,And from theyr vow bene varyed,Wherto the Scrypture them caried!They myght as wel haue taryed;I sweare by the north doore rood,That stowte was whyle he stood,That they had bene as goodTo haue solde theyr best blew hood;For I am in suche a moode,That for my power and parte,Wyth al my wyt and arte,Wyth whole intent and harte,I wyl so at them darte,” &c.

“Although I lacke intelligence,And can not skyll of eloquence,Yet wyll I do my diligenceTo say sumthing or I go hence,Wherein I may demonstrateThe figure, gesture, and estateOf one that is a curate,That harde is and endurate,And ernest in the causeOf piuish popish lawes,That are not worth two strawes,Except it be with dawes,That knoweth not good from euels,Nor Gods worde from the deuels,Nor wyll in no wise heareThe worde of God so cleare,But popishnes vpreare,And make the pope Gods peare.Now let vs go aboutTo tell the tale outOf this good felow stout,That for no man wyll dout,But kepe his olde condicionsFor all the newe comyssions,And vse his supersticions,And also mens tradycions,And syng for dead folkes soules,And reade hys beaderolles,And all such thinges wyll vseAs honest men refuse:But take hym for a cruse,And ye wyll tell me newes;For if he ons begyn,He leaueth nought therin;He careth not a pynHow much ther be wythin,So he the pot may wyn,He wyll it make full thyn;And wher the drinke doth pleaseThere wyll he take his ease,And drinke therof his fyll,Tyll ruddy be his byll;And fyll both cup and can,Who is so glad a manAs is our curate than?I wolde ye knewe it, a curateNot far without Newgate;Of a parysh largeThe man hath mikle charge,And none within this borderThat kepeth such order,Nor one a this syde NauerneLouyth better the ale tauerne:But if the drinke be small,He may not well withall;Tush, cast it on the wall!It fretteth out his gall;Then seke an other house,This is not worth a louse,As dronken as a mouse,Monsyre gybet a vous!And ther wyll byb and bouse,Tyll heuy be his brouse.Thus may ye beholdeThis man is very bolde,And in his learning oldeIntendeth for to syt:I blame hym not a whyt,For it wolde vexe his wyt,And cleane agaynst his earning,To folow such learningAs now a dayes is taught;It wolde sone bryng to naughtHis olde popish brayne,For then he must agayneApply hym to the schole,And come away a fole,For nothing shulde he get,His brayne hath bene to hetAnd with good ale so wet;Wherefore he may now setIn feldes and in medes,And pray vpon his beades,For yet he hath a payreOf beades that be right fayre,Of corall, gete, or ambre,At home within his chambre;For in matins or massePrimar and portas,And pottes and beades,His lyfe he leades:But this I wota,That if ye notaHow this idiotaDoth folow the pota,I holde you a grotaYe wyll rede by rotaThat he may were a cotaIn Cocke Lorels bota.Thus the durty doctour,The popes oune proctour,Wyll bragge and boostWyth ale and a toost,And lyke a rutterHys Latin wyll vtter,And turne and tosse hym,Wyth tu non possumLoquere Latinum;This alum finumIs bonus then vinum;Ego volo quareCum tu drinkarePro tuum caput,Quia apudTe propiciacio,Tu non potes facioTot quam ego;Quam librum tu lego,Caue de meApponere te:Juro per DeumHoc est lifum meum,Quia drinkum stalumNon facere malum.Thus our dominus dodkinWyth ita vera bodkinDoth leade his lyfe,Which to the ale wifeIs very profitable:It is pytie he is not ableTo mayntayne a tableFor beggers and tinkersAnd all lusty drinkers,Or captayne or beddleWyth dronkardes to meddle.Ye cannot, I am sure,For keping of a cureFynde such a one well,If ye shulde rake hell:And therefore noweNo more to you,Sed perlegas ista,Si velis, papista;Farewell and adewe,With a whirlary whewe,And a tirlary typpe;Beware of the whyppe.”

“Homo natusCame to heauen gatus.Sir, you doe come to latus,With your shorne patus:Frequentia falsa Euangelii,For the loue of your bealie,Cum auro & argento,You loued the rules of Lento,Whiche the Pope did inuento:You are spurius de muliere.Not legittimate nor lawful here:O quam venenosa pestis,Fur, periurus, latro, mechus,Homicidis tantum decus!De salute animarum,Of Christes flocke thou hadest small carum:Thou art filius populi:Go, go to Constantinopoli,To your maister the Turke;There shall you lurkeEmong the heathen soules.Somtyme your shorne brethren of PoulesWere as blacke as moules,With their cappes fower forked,Their shoes warme corked;Nosed like redde grapes,Constant as she apes,In nature like blacke monkes,And shoote in sparowes trunkes,And boule when thei haue dinde,And kepe them from the winde;And thei whiche are not ableDoe sitte still at the table,With colour scarlet pale,So small is their good ale:Thus from God thei did tourne,Long before their church did burne.Then when riche men wer sicke,Either dedde or quicke,Valde diligenter notantVbi diuites egrotant;Ibi currunt, nec cessabuntDonec ipsos tumilabunt;Oues alienas tondunt,Et perochias confundunt.These felowes pilde as ganders,Muche like the friers of Flanders,Whiche serue Sathan about the cloisters,Thei loue red wine and oisters.Qui vult Satanæ seruire,Claustrum debet introire,And euer haue suche an heddeAs bastarde Boner that is dedde.He would for the Pope take pain;Therfore help, you friers of Spain,You enquisiters, take paine:It is a greate maineVnto the Pope, your hedde,That Boner is thus dedde,And buried in a misers graue,Like a common kLo, lo, now is he dedde,That was so well fedde,And had a softe bedde!Estote fortis in bello,Good Hardyng and thy fellowe;If you be papistes right,Come steale hym awaie by night,And put hym in a shrine;He was the Popes deuine;Why, shall he be forgotten,And lye still and rotten?Come on, and doe not fainte;Translate with spede your sainct,And put hym in a tombe:His harte is now at Rome.Come forth, you loughtes of Louen,And steale awaie this slouen:You are so full of ire,And popishe desire,And Romishe derision,And hellishe deuision,Therefore I am sureYour kyngdome will not dure.”

“Responde.Ne recorderis peccata,But open heauen gata,Sainct Peter, with your kaies;Shewe my lorde the right waies:He dwelt ones at Poules,And had cure of our soules:I wisse, he was not a baste,But holie, meke, and chaste;It is a greate pitieThat he is gone from our citie;A man of greate honor;O holy sainct Boner!You blessed friersThat neuer wer liers,And you holy nunnesThat neuer had sonnes,Set this child of graceIn some angelles place.”